


Hamlet™

by gods mistake (thelocalace)



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Im not letting ophelia die off stage because fuck that, Its just hamlet but i made it in novel form becasue i hate myself apparently, Minor Character Death, Multi, Shakespeare, So much angst, Tragedy, hamlet is a disater bi, hamlet is a dumb idiot and horatio is always right, im too gay to write about straights, its hamlet what did you expect, okay thats a lie its a lot gayer, slightly gayer than the play, this was a mistake, trigger warning: unbated and envenom'd swords, very slight canon divergence for some very minor things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23550565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelocalace/pseuds/gods%20mistake
Summary: Its literally the play Hamlet but I rewrote it as a novel in (mostly) modern English because god gave me free will and I'm gonna make him regret it. Lines from the original play have been edited to make it more readable for audiences that aren't over 400 years dead, but the plot is the same. Each chapter will (likely) be one scene.
Relationships: Claudius/Gertrude (Hamlet), Gertrude & Hamlet (Hamlet), Guildenstern & Hamlet & Rosencrantz (Hamlet), Hamlet & Horatio, Hamlet & Ophelia (Hamlet), Hamlet/Ophelia (Hamlet), Laertes & Ophelia, lowkey hamlet/horatio bc we all know its canon
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. Act I Scene I

**Author's Note:**

> In all seriousness, I absolutely adore this play and this whole project started as something I did for myself on the side but with all the free time I suddenly have I decided to expand it into something more cohesive. As such, this is my personal interpretation of the play, so forgive me if I lean into ideas you don't happen to share.  
> Most of the lines are either edited or rewritten entirely to work better with a slightly more modern tone because I don't actually hate myself enough to write an entire novel in early modern English. I did my best to translate some of the things that aren't as obvious when written in modern English, but it's not perfect. (Let me know if I've missed something, I probably have)  
> If you have any questions about me or the project feel free to leave them as comments, I'll do my best to respond to all of them within a day or two!
> 
> Also, many thanks for reading my stupid story!  
> [Exit, pursued by a bear]  
> Bee

It was cold, snowflakes flickered into sight as they passed through the light of the fire, before melting into nothingness. Francisco’s eyes flicked towards Elsinore as the clock rang midnight. Behind him, something stirred. If he was lucky, it would be whoever was scheduled for the next guard shift.

A figure emerged from the snowy darkness, features obscured in shadows. “Who’s there?” It asked.

“You first,” Francisco called, reaching for his sword. “Who do you serve?

“Long live the King!” The figure stepped forward, revealing a familiar face.

“Barnardo?” Relief touched the edges of his voice and his hands moved from his blade, leaning to get a better look at his new company. It looked as though luck was on his side tonight.

“Indeed” Francisco shifted to let Barnardo share the fire’s warmth.

“Good of you to be so timely,” He adjusted his thick coat and let a grateful smile slip onto his face. He watched as a particularly large snowflake made it’s landing on an ember and hissed softly.

“It’s struck twelve,” Barnardo said it as if timeliness should have never been in question. When the soldier didn’t move, Barnado nudged him towards his belongings. “Get to bed, Fancisco.”

“Hm? Oh, many thanks, it is bitter cold and I'll be glad to be rid of it.” He suspected that even under thick, wool gloves he would find his fingers red with cold. 

The other man simply nodded in acknowledgement. “Have you had a quiet guard?”

“Not a mouse stirring.”

“Hm. Well, good night. Oh, if you happen upon Horatio and Marcellus, tell them to make haste. They’re to share this watch with me.”

“I think I hear them.” The two guards turned in the same direction Barnardo had come, where footsteps and quiet conversation could be heard echoing. Francisco shifted forwards to better see. “Who’s there?” 

Horatio raised a hand as he stepped into the light. “Friends to this ground.”

“And liegemen to the Dane.” Added Marcellus, following close behind.

“Goodnight, gentlemen.” Francisco nodded to them and moved to leave, he’d held off his tiredness well enough, but now it was starting to seep through the cracks.

“Farewell. Wait,” Marcellus reached his hand out to stop the soldier. “Who has relieved you?”

“Barnardo, have a good night.” With a final nod and wave, he disappeared into the darkness.

Marcellus turned to Horatio and smiled before calling out. “Ha! Barnardo!”

“Marcellus,” Barnardo greeted. “Is Horatio with you?”

“A piece of him.” Horatio said, voice flat, and rubbed his hands together, trying to keep them warm. He quickly placed himself as close to the fire as he could get without singeing his clothing. 

Greetings were exchanged, belongings were settled, and Marcellus chattered at Barnardo and Horatio about whatever came to mind for a good twenty minutes before the real reason the three had gathered on the walls of Elsinore came up.

“Has it happened again tonight?” Marcellus asked Barnardo eventually.

The guardsman shook his head. “Not that I have seen.”

“Horatio thinks it is simply our imagination,” Marcellus told him, despite all parties already knowing this. “I told him we have seen it twice now and still he did not believe me, so I invited him along to see for himself.” He shot Horatio a look of annoyance. “Perhaps if it appears again then he will trust our eyes and speak to it.”

Horatio rolled his eyes. “It will not appear because it is not real, I only followed you into the cold so you would lay this to rest.”

“Real or not, we have time. You trusted our word enough to join us tonight, let us tell you again what we have seen, perhaps we may yet change your mind.” Barnardo offered. Horatio gave him a look but assented. “About this same time last night, Marcellus and I were standing here, and when the bell tolled one-”

Suddenly Marcellus cut him off, his arm flailing in his haste. “Hush!” He pointed out to the courtyard ahead before Barnardo could protest the interruption. “Look, it comes again!” 

Mere meters away hovered the eerie form of a ghost. Tall and pale, with horribly empty eyes and shining armor that sent a shiver down the spines of all three men.

“It resembles the dead king.” Breathed Barnardo, barely a whisper.

Marcellus pushed an astonished Horatio forward and in the process angling himself away from the ghost’s line of sight. “You’re a scholar, speak to it, Horatio.” 

“It looks very much like the king, does it not, Horatio?” Barnardo said, half distracted by the sight before them.

“Incredibly so,” He admitted, previous doubt all but forgotten as he stood there in the snow, shaking for reasons entirely unrelated to the cold. “It is frightening, and yet fascinating.” 

The ghost’s head turned, eyes piercing as they settled directly on Horatio.

“It looks like it wishes to speak.”

“Speak to it, Horatio!” 

For a moment Horatio stood wide-eyed and struck dumb. Marcellus nudged him again and he stumbled forwards. Words rushed from his mouth then, unpolished and desperate. “What are you that disturbs this night? Why do you wear the form of King Hamlet? By heaven, I command you, speak!”

The ghost stared, silent. 

“You’ve offended it,” Marcellus told him as the ghost turned to walk away.

“Look, it is walking away!” Barnardo warned.

A frustrated noise left Horatio and rushed forwards. “Stay! Speak! Come back and speak!” He only managed a handful of steps before the ghost vanished into the air. He slowed and let his shoulders slump, disappointment and fear mixing into an unpleasant fog that settled upon the trio. “It’s gone.” He turned to his companions. “It does not wish to answer.”

“Horatio, you look shaken! Why would that be, when what we have seen is but fantasy? Or have you changed your mind?” Barnardo teased, though he too looked pale.

Horatio shook his head, rubbing his temple with a pained look. “I would never have believed it, had I not seen it with my own eyes.” His expression suggested that he still didn’t quite believe it. Not out of skepticism, but out of sheer desperation for any other explanation.

Marcellus looked delighted by this admission, excitement at being proven right outweighing the fear of the ghost. “Does it not look like the king?” He leaned in as though it were a great revelation and not the only thing they seemed capable of noting.

Horatio shuddered and began to pace. “As much as you look like yourself. Even his armour, the exact same that he wore to battle Fortinbras of Norway.” He stopped to give Barnardo and Marcellus a bewildered look. “His frown the same as that he wore when defeating the sledded Polacks on the ice. It is strange” An understatement, truly, but few words could describe the night’s unusual events. Horatio lifted a hand to rub at his face, this was quickly becoming more trouble than he’d ever anticipated.

“And twice before he has appeared, at this same time.” 

“I don’t know what it wants or why it is here, but I do know that it cannot be pleasant. I do not see this boding well for our state.”

Marcellus perked up at this. “Do you know what has been going on, then? We’ve been on this watch for ages, they’ve even started sending us out on Sundays, and for what!” He pouted slightly. “Besides this, not so much as a stray fox has crossed my watch. I should like to know why we must suffer this bitter cold.”

“Perhaps,” Horatio began, the fear of only moments before now fading as he worked it out in his mind. The two guards watched quietly for a moment as he resumed pacing, now with a thoughtful frown. “Perhaps. It is only rumored, but you know of how our late King Hamlet, whose image we have just seen, slayed his rival Fortinbras, yes?” They nodded. “Well, when Hamlet vanquished him, the lands that would have once gone to his son, the young Fortinbras, now were to belong to Denmark. Now, young Fortinbras opposed this and so full of resentment and brashness is he that he’s collected a patchwork of desperadoes to stand behind him at Norway’s borders. He plans to take back what his father lost in his death, and I believe this to be the reason behind your endless watch.” 

Marcellus and Barnardo were quiet for another moment, taking in Horatio’s tale. 

“I suppose it makes sense then,” Said Barnardo, “being the reason for our current situation, that this ghost bears such a resemblance to our late King.”

Hoatio wore a solemn look. “Many times have events such as this been rumored to occur, and never have they brought fortune. I hesitate to claim them all true with only our own experiences as proof, but I would heed the warning they bring. No good can come of this.” He looked back to where the ghost had disappeared to see the figure had returned. “But, look! Over there, it has returned! I’ll cross it, though it blast me.”

The guardsmen hurried to follow Horatio as he chased after the ghost once more.

“Stay, illusion!” He shouted as the ghost spread its arms, locking eyes with the man for a second time. “If you have any sound, or use of voice, speak to me! If there is something I might do to grant me your grace, speak to me.” He fumbled for a moment, desperate to gain something, any small piece of knowledge that the ghost might have. “If you know of your country’s fate, how to avoid it, speak! Why do you appear to us? Stay, and speak of it!” In the distance, a rooster crowed, and the ghost moved to leave. Frantic, Horatio turned to his companions. “Stop it, Marcellus!” 

“How? Shall I strike it?” His sword was already drawn, but Marcellus hesitated before attacking. 

“If it will not stay, yes!”

Both Marcellus and Barnardo jumped into action, then, lunging after the spirit with weapons drawn, stumbling when their attacks did nothing.

“Gone again!” Cried Marcellus when the ghost finally evaporated into the early morning air. He looked down at the sword in his hands. “Foolish for us to try and strike it,” He lamented.

Horatio gave him a questioning look.

“It is a ghost, invulnerable as the air.” He explained. Horatio made a sound of sheepish understanding.

“It was about to speak when the cock crew.” Barnardo was completely ignoring Marcellus and Horatio. Instead his eyes were still trained where the ghost had last been, head tilted thoughtfully.

“And then it startled like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons,” Horatio agreed. “I have heard that spirits can not walk in the day, and the crow of roosters warns them of its approach. I suppose this proves it. Let us break our watch, the sun is rising and I believe we should tell Prince Hamlet of what we’ve seen tonight. I would stake that this spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him.”

“Agreed,” Nodded Marcellus. “I believe I might even know where he is now.”

Together, the three men departed in search of the Prince.


	2. Act I Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claudius: Stop being emo, also I'm your dad now.  
> Hamlet: God I wish I were fucking dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out when you decide to turn your favorite play into a novel you become a little bit of a perfectionist when it comes to translation and and quality. Whoops. Fun fact: I'm referencing about 8 different versions and interpretations of this play in addition to my own, because go hard or go home, right?
> 
> Feel free to let me know about any errors, I don't have a beta (we die like literally every female character Shakespeare ever wrote, off screen and as a plot device)
> 
> Bee
> 
> PS as of this chapter coming out I have rewritten several parts of the first chapter, nothing major, just made it more readable.

The King of Denmark stood before his court, his newly made wife standing proudly by his side, her hand held loosely in his own. It was turning out to be a very good day.

“This is a time of great sorrow for our kingdom, as it has a right to be, with the passing of my dear brother Hamlet, our former King, so fresh in our minds.” He looked over the faces of the lords and ladies before him, expression serious but not quite solemn. “It is only natural for us to hold that grief in our hearts, and yet though we remember him, it is my hope that we might also find happiness! For despite our best efforts, discretion bows to nature. And so it is with equal measure delight and dole that my once sister, now wife, joins me as your Queen once more. To those of you who have taken this in stride, we thank you!” He released Gertrude’s hand, then stepped slightly forward on the dias. 

“Now, it is common knowledge that the young Fortinbras took news of our late King Hamlet as a sentence of disjointment and weakness for our state. He believes this to be the key to his victory and has not failed to make it clear he expects the lands lost by his father returned to him!” If he had been smiling before, Claudius grinned at the grumbles of displeasure from the crowd. “I assure you, he is alone in this expectation.”

“Cornelius and Voltimand,” He called forward the two men from the gallery. “I have here a writ for Norway, to be delivered to young Fortinbras’ uncle. Though he is bedridden and hears little of his nephew’s doings, it’s prudent to discourage his involvement. You will deliver this for me.” Claudius turned to address the men more directly. “Details of your exact duty are enclosed, let your haste commend your duty.”

“In this and all things will we show our duty,” They bowed deeply.

Claudius inclined his head. “I do not doubt it. Travel well.” Cornelius and Voltimand had barely left the room before Claudius was turning and calling upon the next item of his to-do list. “And now, Laertes, you told me of some suit you wished to bring me? If you wish for something you must ask it, few have been as serviceable to the crown as your father, if allowable, I would grant what you ask.”

Laertes came forwards. “My Lord, I would ask your leave and favor to return to France. To show my duty in your coronation, I returned; yet I must confess, with that duty done, my thoughts and wishes bend again toward France. I bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.”

Claudius mulled over this. “Do you have your father’s leave? What do you say, Polonius?”

“He has, My Lord, petitioned me laboriously and in this pursuit, wrung from me my consent to return to France. I beseech you, give him leave to go.” Polonius explained as he moved to join his son in front of the King.

“Then you shall have it. Go where you like, young Laertes, and may you travel well.”

Relief touched the corners of his eyes and Laertes stepped away from the dias alongside his father. 

“Finally, my nephew Hamlet, now my son.” All eyes swept to the corner of the room, where the only figure still draped in black stood. 

Hamlet drew his limbs impossibly closer and sent an absolutely poisonous glare at his uncle. “A little more than kin, and less than kind.” He spat, careful to keep his voice low and unheard.

The King gave him an approximation of a pitying look. “How is it that the clouds still hang on you?” 

Hamlet twitched. “Not so, My Lord, I am too much in the sun.”

“Hamlet,” He turned at his mother’s voice. Her pity wasn’t an approximation, and for just a moment, he forgot about being angry with her. “Cast off this nighted color, my son, and celebrate with us. You cannot mourn forever, all life comes to an end.”

“I know,” his voice was nearly a whisper.

“Then why does this seem to be clinging to you so strongly?”

“ _Seem_ , mother!” Never mind forgetting his anger, Hamlet’s head snapped to meet her gaze. “No, it is.”

“Hamlet-”

He scoffed, turning sharply away. “I know not _‘seems’_. This is no appearance, mother! No, if it were it would only be my color; not paired with heavy sighs, nor tearful stares, nor grief-stricken looks! There is a reason these are things a man might use to play grief, but there is no act here.” How could she ask that? His father, her _husband_ was dead and she just--

“It is the nature of a dutiful son and a show of your kindness, Hamlet, that you show your mourning for your father. But this is no extraordinary case. Your father lost a father, and his before him, and all of them mourned as is proper, but eventually that duty came to an end. To continue like this is unreasonable and childish. This obsession with death is unhealthy and I worry for you. You are my son now, and my heir. For your health and my own peace of mind, I ask you to stay here. I know of your desire to return to Wittenberg, but please, remain here, where you are home.”

Hamlet was begining to consider the benefits of homicide.

Sensing her son’s displeasure, Gertrude reached for him before he had a chance to speak. “Please, Hamlet. I only wish to see you well. Stay here?”

The prince didn’t meet his mother’s eyes, and his hand lay limp in hers. His jaw clenched hard enough to creak. “Of course, mother.”

Claudius beamed. “What wonderful news! Such a thing deserves celebration!” 

The room emptied out, the court following after their King and Queen and they strode away smiling, revelry already consuming their thoughts. Eventually only Hamlet remained, still standing at the dias, eyes fixed firmly on the floor in front of him. He stood there, hands slowly clenching and unclenching before eventually something snapped. 

“Fie!” Hamlet kicked at the floor, hands coming up to further ruin his already disheveled hair. He wanted to throw something. “If only- God, what I would give to melt into nothing! To dissolve like dew under the sun. But no, I must live and suffer this torture because He, Himself declared canon against self-slaughter!" He kicked at the seat that now belonged to his uncle. "It is suffering, isn’t it?”

If he listened hard enough, strained over the sound of his own anger-labored breath, he could hear the sounds of laughter and celebration echoing through the halls. He laughed, but it was an empty, hollow thing. “To think, two months dead- not even! Not even two months, and already he is forgotten. I had thought- Had she not hung on him so adoringly? And had he not looked at her the same? But here she is! Replacing him like a pair of shoes worn through, before the tears on her cheeks have even dried. And with my uncle no less! Frailty, thy name is woman!”

Hamlet let out a noise very similar to a sob and fell to a crouch on the floor. “My uncle. He would have me call him father- _ha!_ That I could call him what I wish, but no. I must hold my tongue.”

Footsteps from the hall caught his attention, and he turned to a most welcome sight.

“Hail to your lordship!” Horatio greeted the prince, flanked by two guards at his sides.

For the first time since his father’s death, Hamlet’s face was split by a smile. “Horatio! It is wonderful to see you!”

“You as well, My Lord.” Horatio’s smile matched Hamlet’s own as the prince rushed to greet him. 

“One day, my friend, I shall get you to forget my title. I expected you to be in Wittenberg, what are you doing here?” Then he seemed to finally register the other occupants of the room. “Marcellus?” The guard didn’t even get two words in before Hamlet was moving on. “It is good to see you, and you as well, sir.” He nodded at Barnardo before turning back to his real interest, Horatio. “But tell me, what news have you? What made you come to Denmark?”

“A truant disposition, My Lord.” 

“Ha, as if! Do not slander yourself, my friend. Tell me true, why are you here?”

“My Lord, I came to see your father’s funeral.” 

Hamlet’s smile dimmed. “Hmph. Don’t mock me, I think you mean my mother’s wedding.”

His friend winced. “They did follow each other quite closely.”

“That’s one way to put it! The same meats of the funeral furnished the wedding feast, Horatio. Frugality is one thing, this is entirely another. I swear, I would rather meet my most hated enemy in heaven than to have lived that day. My father, I can see my father.”

“Can you really, My Lord? Where?”

Hamlet sighed, oblivious to his friend’s sincere interest. “In my mind’s eye, Horatio.”

“I met him once,” Horatio told him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “He was a goodly king.”

“He was more than just that. He was the most wonderful man I ever knew. I shall not look upon his likes again.”

Horatio bit his lip. He wasn't blind, Hamlet had not been well since his father's death, worse since his mother's wedding, and even now Horatio could see a lingering redness around his eyes. There was no way he _couldn't_ tell his friend what he'd seen, but there was also no good way to say it. “My Lord, I think I saw him last night.”

“Saw who?”

“My lord, the king, your father.”

“The king, my father?!”

“It’s not just me, these two have also seen the same. We came to you hoping to explain.”

“By God, let me hear!” 

And so Horatio told him and hoped he'd done the right thing as he watched Hamlet's eyes widened and his mouth fall agape as he explained everything he’d seen and everything Marcellus and Barnardo had told him.

“Did it truly look so like my father?” His voice was hushed, fragile.

“As like as my hands to each other.”

The prince took a step back, reeling. “Where?”

“My Lord, upon the platform where we watched.”

“Did you not speak to it?”

“My Lord, I did try, but never did it respond.” A thoughtful look crossed Horatio’s face. “There was one moment, where it looked as though it were about to speak, but then the cock crew loud and it startled away at the sound and vanished for good.”

“‘Tis very strange,”

Horatio nodded, his own thoughts exactly. “I swear every word to be true, we thought it our duty to tell you of it.”

“Of course,” Said Hamlet, there wasn’t any scenario he could think of where Horatio would lie to him like this. There wasn't any scenario he could imagine where Horatio would lie to him at all. “I’m glad you told me, but this troubles me. Do you hold the watch again tonight?”

Marcellus and Barnardo answered this time, “Yes, My Lord.”

“Armed, you say?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“From top to toe?”

“My Lord, from head to foot.”

Hamlet frowned. “Then you didn’t see his face?”

“He had his visor up, My Lord, we saw his face.” Horatio assured him.

“Really? Did he seem angered?”

Horatio shook his head. “More sorrowful than angered.”

Hamlet began pacing. “Pale or red?”

“Pale.” Three pairs of eyes anxiously watched the prince move back and forth.

He hummed. “And his eyes were fixed upon you?”

“Constantly so.”

“If only I’d been there.”

“It would have amazed you,” Horatio told him, truthfully.

“I don’t doubt it.” He said almost absently. “Did it stay long?”

“Hardly more than a minute, My Lord.”

“No! It was longer than that!” Marcellus protested.

Horatio only shook his head. “Not when I saw it.”

“His beard was grizzled, no?”

“As it was in life, dark and streaked with silver, just as I remember it to be.”

Hamlet finally stopped pacing and looked at the three men head on. “I will join your watch tonight. Perhaps it will walk again.”

“I don’t doubt it will.”

“If it takes my father’s form again, I swear, I shall speak to it. But, if you have held your silence on this thus far, I pray you keep it. Whatever happens, whatever we see, speak not on it and I will do the same. I must say goodbye for now, but I shall meet you upon the platform between eleven and twelve tonight.”

All three nodded.

“We’ll do our duty to you, My Lord.”

“Your love as I give you mine instead, gentlemen. Farewell.” Hamlet watched as they left and he was once again left alone.

He turned his back to the door and brought a hand to his face. “My father’s spirit, in arms no less! All is not well, it must be some foul play. Ah! If only the night were already here! No,” He didn't need to rush, he had the beginnings of a plan, nothing else could be done until he confirmed the existence of the ghost. Hamlet smoothed his clothing and attempted to tame his ruined hair. “No, I must stay calm. Whatever is rotten shall reveal itself in time, no matter how deeply buried. I simply have to wait.” With a final centering breath, the prince left to wait.


	3. Act I Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have I projected my own status as an eldest sibling onto Laertes and his relationship with Ophelia? Yes, absolutely, I'm self aware enough to admit that I'm a sucker for sibling bonds. Makes it hurt more :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Careful readers might notice that most of Polonius' dialogue is taken directly from the play. This is because I think it's hilarious that he is the only one who still speaks Like That, and also because if I had to try and translate even half of his metaphors or plays on words I would die.
> 
> This scene is very short, but the next scene will be up sooner to try and make up for it.

Ophelia trailed after her brother as he bustled through the house, getting ready to depart. It had been ages since the last time he visited home, and while she didn’t begrudge Laertes for leaving again, she was going to miss him. 

They chatted lightly as Laertes gathered his things, but eventually, his bags were collected by the door and they were saying goodbye. 

Laertes opened his arms and Ophelia leaned into the hug. “Write to me, won’t you? I know visits will be harder, but I’d better still hear from you.” He gave her a teasing smile and a kiss on the forehead as they broke away.

Ophelia rolled her eyes back. “As if I would ever let you be.”

Her brother laughed but then his face became serious again and Ophelia knew she was about to get a lecture. Their father made the same face right before he would launch into a rambling anecdote or life-lesson. She didn’t say this out loud because she was a gracious and kind sister, no matter what Laertes said.

“I understand that you’ve been… seeing Hamlet.” He made a face that wasn’t exactly cringing but was certainly uncomfortable. “I understand that you may like him, dear Ophelia, but his affections are trifling, and I do not wish to see you hurt or made a fool of.”

Ophelia wondered somewhere in her mind behind the constant stream of _why me_ whether Laertes had to actively try to be this embarrassing. “You wish for me to stop.”

“I do not wish to speak ill of your affections, he may very well love you now, but it would not be a great stretch to believe that this may not always be the case. His will is not entirely his own, he is a Prince still, Ophelia. Regardless of any feelings he may have, he cannot not marry you."

“Laertes,” Ophelia started to protest.

“All I ask is that you keep this knowledge in mind, should he ask anything of you.”

Ophelia narrowed her eyes. Laertes was careful to skirt around his less than savory habits when regaling his sister with stories of his travels, but that didn’t mean others didn’t speak of it, and Ophelia had ears. “I shall the effect of this good lesson keep. But, good my brother, I would be cautious of throwing stones in glass houses.”

“O, fear me not.” He glanced at the time and hugged Ophelia once more. “I stay too long. But here comes father.”

The siblings turned to see their father sweep into the foyer.

“Laertes!” Polonius called, “Still here? Aboard, aboard for shame! The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, and you stay! Ah, but while I have you, let me give you some parting wisdom. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; but do not dull thy palm with entertainment of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, bear't that the opposed may beware of thee.” He took a breath and Laertes started to open his mouth, but their father barreled right on. “Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice; take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, but not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy; for the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine ownself be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!” He beamed lovingly at his son and Ophelia watched fondly as Laertes sighed good-naturedly and hugged their father.

“I’ll take my leave,” Laertes lifted his bags and opened the door. “And Ophelia? Remember what I told you.” 

“‘Tis in my memory locked.”

He nodded and gave a final wave. “Farewell.”

Polonius looked to his daughter as his son’s figure disappeared from view. “What did he tell you?”

Ophelia did _not_ cringe. “Something touching on the Lord Hamlet, if you care to know.”

Her father raised a grey eyebrow. “He hath, I have heard, very oft of late given private time to you; and you yourself have of your audience been most free and bounteous. What is between you? Give me up the truth”

“He has offered me his affections, yes.”

“Affection! Pooh!” Polonius scoffed. “You speak like a green girl, unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his offers, as you call them?”

It was becoming very difficult to keep the hurt she felt from showing on her face. “I don’t know.” Hamlet had been so sweet to her, but her brother and now father were insisting that affection for the prince was a mistake. She knew he couldn’t marry her, she wasn’t stupid, but couldn’t they let Ophelia have something nice? Just for a little while? “I don’t know what I should think.”

“Think yourself a baby, that you have ta’en these tenders for true pay, which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly; or, — not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, running it thus, — you’ll tender me a fool.”

Ophelia bristled. “Father, he has entreated me with love in honorable fashion!”

“Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to.”

“He has sworn it to me, with almost all the holy vows of heaven.” She did let the hurt slip onto her face then, Laertes at least had not been so unkind in his instruction.

Polonius turned to his daughter fully. “Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, when the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter, giving more light than heat, extinct in both, even in their promise, as it is a-making, you must not take for fire. From this time be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence; set your entreatments at a higher rate than a command to parley.” Ophelia winced. “For Lord Hamlet, believe so much in him, that he is young, and with a larger tether may he walk than may be given you.” Her father paused for just a moment and looked down to her face. “In few, Ophelia, do not believe his vows, for they are brokers, not of that dye which their investments show, but mere implorators of unholy suits, breathing like sanctified and pious bonds, the better to beguile. This is for all: I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth, have you so slander any moment’s leisure, as to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. Look to ’t, I charge you; come your ways.”

Ophelia suddenly and desperately wished for her brother back. Even if he agreed with their father, he would’ve comforted her, would’ve gone out and done something foolish just to earn Ophelia a reprieve from their father’s scrutiny. 

“I shall obey, my lord.” Ophelia turned on her heel and left her father standing alone at the door without looking back.


	4. Act I Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horatio: don't chase after the ghost of your dead dad, you could die.
> 
> Hamlet, thrilled: promise?
> 
> And now the weather: it's still cold, guys. It's Denmark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, I finished Scene IV early to make up for the short chapter.

Night finally came, and found Hamlet joining Horatio and Marcellus on the guard platform up on the walls of Elsinore. It was snowing again.

“It is very cold.” Said Hamlet, who felt a little stupid for the remark. Did the guards deal with this every night? How did they still have their noses?

“The wind is certainly biting with a vengeance,” Horatio agreed. The three stared into the darkness, waiting for something to happen.

“What hour is it?”

Horatio made a noncommittal sound. “Not yet twelve?”

“No, it’s struck the hour.” Marcellus corrected. 

“Really? I hadn’t heard it. We’re close to the time of the spirit’s arrival, then.”

The men startled as trumpets suddenly rang out from the castle behind them, and an ordnance shot was fired. Hamlet sighed heavily and Horatio gave him a questioning look.

“What was that, my lord?”

“The king doth host a night of revels to toast his glorious union.” Hamlet explained, his voice drenched in bitter sarcasm. “Carousing and making fools of themselves into the small hours.”

“Is it a custom?”

“Hm. Aye. Though it’s one belonging to me, I find that it would be better honored in the breaking of it than the observance. It’s idiotic, and only taints our reputation further. Regardless of the truth of the matter, it doesn’t do to flaunt such things so openly. They’d make a laughing stock of us, and be too drunk to care.”

It wasn’t, Hamlet supposed, the fault of any of those that celebrated that they belonged to this tradition. One did not have any say in their origin, but he wondered at what point did a man’s presentation outweigh whatever may lay in his heart? Surely there were good men who joined in the drinking and dancing, despite what Hamlet’s thoughts on the matter were. Did one blemish, however loudly presented, outweigh the truth of an otherwise sensible mind? Did it taint the rest? Hamlet was suddenly very invested in the answer.

Horatio watched the prince sink deeper into his brooding and prayed for something to happen soon, lest Hamlet get up and start pacing.

Horatio had begun contemplating the benefits of setting something on fire if only it meant the crease in Hamlet’s brow would go away, when Marcellus’ constant chatter cut off abruptly. 

Across the yard hovered the same apparition from the night before, still as blood chillingly reminiscent of the dead king as when Horatio had last seen it.

“My lord,” Horatio breathed, relieved to have an excuse to shake the prince from his thoughts. “Look, here it comes.”

Hamlet gasped. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” He shot up from his seat and Horatio scrambled to follow. “Be you spirit of health or goblin damned, bringing airs from heaven or blasts from hell, whether your intent be wicked or charitable, you come to me in such a state, such a form that I will speak to you!”

Hamlet took a step towards the ghost and Horatio shifted nervously. 

“I’ll call you Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane! O, _answer me!_ Let me not sit in ignorance! Tell me, why do you break from your shroud? What has happened that you, who has been laid to rest, stand before me as such?” Hamlet’s eyes held a shaking desperation. “What should we do?”

“My lord,” Horatio warned.

The ghost’s eyes bore into Hamlet, who shook with grief, and fear, and mounting anger.

It beckoned to him.

“It wants you to follow,” Said Marcellus. “Do not go with it.”

“No, by no means.”

Hamlet had a look on his face that Horatio did not care for at all. “It will not speak, perhaps it will if I follow.”

“My lord, _do not._ ” He was very close to begging.

“What could I possibly have to fear? My life? Hah.” He laughed without humor. “It calls to me again, I will follow.” 

Horatio bodily shoved himself in the way of the stairs, holding out his hands to halt the prince. “What if it tempts you towards the sea, my lord, or to the dreadful summit of a cliff and there assumes some horrid form that drives you to madness? Think, this form drives you to desperation, what might it make you do? There are worse things than death, my lord.”

Hamlet was not listening. “It waves me forward again.” To the ghost he said, “Go on, I will follow.”

Marcellus came to Horatio’s aid, helping him physically hold Hamlet back.

“Let me go!” cried Hamlet, ripping himself from their grip and flying down the stairs towards the ghost. “Go on, I will follow!”

“We have to follow him,”

“Agreed.”

“God only knows how this will turn out.”

“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.” Marcellus told him, gravely.

Together they chased the shadow of the prince into the night.


End file.
